


two inches to the left

by donutcats



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, James Centric, Run On Sentences, Slight angst with fluff, best friend fic, james & orla friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: The thing about James is, he feels misplaced. Just slightly. Just enough.





	two inches to the left

**Author's Note:**

> I had a need for more fic that included james and orla being close without being romantic and since I couldn't find any, I Created. This was actually meant to be a different fic all together but somehow it turned into something very James centric and vaguely angsty at times. I managed to include a good James&Orla scene that I love dearly, so I'm not too mad.

The thing about James is, he feels misplaced. Just slightly. Just enough to be noticable when he has nothing else to focus on. When he’s laying in bed alone, still awake because his brain won’t shut off, or when he’s watching some morning soaps with Michelle before school starts because she bullied the clicker out of his hands and it’s one of her guilty pleasures and he’s sworn to secrecy or else she’ll “clean his head right off.” 

It’s those little moments, when it’s quiet and his mind can fold in on itself a thousand bloody times. 

The thing about Derry is, it’s home, but it’s not. He knows it’s his home now, and he knows he went through all the trouble of stopping that taxi and over apologizing to his mother even as she cut her eyes at him and tripping over himself to make it back and declare that he is a Derry Girl. It’s home in the way that he can now navigate the halls in the dark without having to turn on any lights. It’s home in the way where he’s learned all the best shortcuts from the school to the shops to the girls’ houses and back again. It’s home in the way he can pop on over to Erin’s without having to call first, how he can sit and listen to Ma Mary and Aunt Sarah talk about someone they saw in town and actually understand why the news of seeing them at the baker’s is such a big deal.

But it’s not. In the way he can’t put words to. It’s just a feeling, some little ball of something that sits in his chest and gives a right heave ho whenever he hears yet another remark about his accent or his mum, or when he remembers things from his life before. He thinks it’s a homesickness, for a place that stopped feeling like home long before he found himself on the Mallon’s doorstep with nothing but a single trunk of luggage and his mum in her designer sunglasses explaining away the situation and a promise from his step-dad to keep in touch.

He looks out at Derry with its sloping streets and cobbled houses, and it’s charming and homey but. That thing in his chest wobbles when he looks out at the countryside and remembers the London skyline. James doesn’t think he was built for small town life, no matter how at home he feels. And he hates that part of himself. That part that continues to miss a life from before, that continues to plan for an  _ After Derry.  _

He should probably stop that, or at least put a bookmark in it for now. He’s still only sixteen. For the foreseeable future, his life is Derry and it’s honestly not as bad as his four am thoughts make him feel. This is his home. It’s  _ home.  _

The thing about James, is that he’s a bit too soft for Derry, he thinks. That’s the real problem. He was much too soft and English to go to the boys school, and sometimes James wonders if he’s still too soft for an all girls’ school. The thing about the Irish, is that they’re hardy people, tough as nails. Even the most sensitive among them are still cast from iron, from steel.

Which is probably why he cries when Orla crawls into his bed on a Saturday morning, while he’s still deciding if he wants to be a functioning member of society that weekend, and hands him a Union Jack flag. At first, he’s groggy and rubbing at his eyes, as she presses close to him, laying her head on the unused corner of his pillow. Her eyes are wide, as big as ever, and a few tendrils of curls escape the ponytail her hair is in, tickling his nose.

“Morning, Orla.” He rasps. She smiles, clutches something close to her chest, something red white and blue, and James thinks, in that half awake state, maybe she’s come to show him that Dennis got new and improved American Flags in. He briefly wonders how many stars this one has. 

“I noticed, the last time we was here see, that your walls were a bit bare.”

James yawns, stretches a bit, shifts on the pillow to give Orla more room, which she happily takes, the piece fabric still held tight to her body. “I ‘spose so. I just haven’t found the right things to put up.” 

“You didn’t think you’d be here long enough to pop a few things up on the walls, is all.” Her voice goes a bit quiet, in that way of hers when she’s being serious and saying something terribly spot on. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say-” He tries to hedge, and now he’s more awake. Because, even if she’s right, which Orla has a weird tendency to be right when least expected, that doesn’t mean he has to  _ own up to it. _

“Derry is your forever home now, aye James?” And now she takes out the thing caught between them, wiggling around on his bed to try and hold it out for him to see. “I didn’t want ye to get homesick. Did ye know the mall has one of those little trolleys that sell flags? Amazing thing, really, I even bought one from Estonia. Cracker, isn’t it?” 

James feels that thing in his chest heave ho, and he crushes the flag between himself and Orla once again, wrapping her in a hug. He’s crying and she doesn’t make fun of him at all, just hugs him tighter. 

A little later, after James has scrubbed at his face with his sleep shirt and Orla has pressed her face against his impeding the process, they tack the Union Jack above his bed. As if on cue Michelle pokes her head in to complain about the noise, which quickly turns into her complaining about not even knowing Orla was over, which even quicker turns into her pitching a fit about the flag on his wall. 

It ends with Michelle trying to unsuccessfully smother James with his own pillow, as Orla picks through the meager things on his desk, and Aunt Deirdre yelling up the stairs about Erin calling to say her and Clare are heading over. 

“It’s crooked, anyways.” Michelle says, kicking at his legs as she rolls off the bed, giving the flag one last derisive look before she’s stomping down the stairs. 

Orla hops onto the bed, what looks to be a notebook of his in hand. He doesn’t own a journal, not like Erin owns a diary, but he writes sometimes, when he needs to vent or just get thoughts out of his head. A part of him wants to be mad, and snatch it away. But it’s Orla. What she doesn’t read, he’d probably end up telling her anyway. Which, that’s something else that settles in his body. Not in a bad way, in the way that the pervasive feeling of being  _ other _ lives in his bones.

“You know, Orla, I think you’re my best friend.” He almost whispers, staring up at the, yes he notices it now, slightly crooked Union Jack. It needs to be moved just a few inches over.

Orla hums, her stocking feet wiggling their way under his arm. “Well I would hope so. Would be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? For ye to be my best friend only to not feel the same.” She says, in that slow tone of hers that’s so uniquely Orla.

“You have a point there.” 

There’s a clattering commotion from the stairway, and in the next second he has two bodies throwing themselves onto his bed. Erin and Clare are talking over each other, and he catches something about plans for the day and “Jesus Christ James, the Union Jack, really?” and “Orla you should have told me we were getting him gifts! I came unprepared! Now I look like a right dick don’t I, empty handed.” 

Michelle mumbles something about being left out and he can feel her laughter as she elbows him directly in the stomach with the world’s fakest  _ sorry _ following shortly after.

He uses the pain as an excuse to turn his head and press his face into the soft fabric of Clare’s sweater, uses Erin’s laughter to hide the sniffles welling up in his throat. 

The thing about James is, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel like he truly fits in. He’s not a round peg in a square hole anymore, and he’s grateful, but he’ll probably always be a square peg with the corners rounded off fitting into a perfectly square hole. He fits, sure, but there’s something slightly off, something he can never properly explain to anyone. 

The thing is, maybe it’s not Derry that’s home. Maybe that’s something he’s starting to realize, as Orla worms her way closer, using his chest as a book rest for his own not-journal, as Erin manhandles his legs so she can comfortably sprawl her own across them. Michelle is going on about some party tonight that the Christian Brother Boys are throwing and they all have to go, and Clare is mumbling about curfews and all boys schools and her knee digs into James’ side.

The thing is, _ this is home, _ right here. James tears up again, disturbs Orla as he tries to press the heels of his palms so hard into his eyes he sees stars, but Michelle pries his hands away, and is cackling about him being a fucking cry baby even as she twists around to hug his head. She says she’s putting him in a headlock, since wee cry babies aren’t tolerated, but it feels a lot like a hug. 

Derry isn’t home, he doesn’t think it ever will be, not in the proper bone deep way. But being a Derry Girl is different, than just being from Derry. That’s the crux of it all, he thinks. He might not be at home in Derry, he’ll never quite fit, but he doesn’t have to. It feels a bit heavy, this revelation, to come to in the early afternoon with four girls piled atop him. But it feels important, and it feels right. Hell, he got to hang a Union Jack on his wall and none of them tried to tear it down. If that’s not love, James doesn’t know what is. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my writing, please check out;  
[my twitter!](https://twitter.com/kaijucats)  
[my tumblr!](https://donutcats.tumblr.com/)


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